Wounds that never heal
by Lys de Pluie
Summary: It hurts. A lot more than he wants to admit. But he still pulls his arms closer to his chest, maybe because he is in such a desperate need of comfort that he would accept everyone, anyone at this moment. -SpeRo


_A/N : Little challenge to myself in a way : not say the names before the story comes to an end. Not like you don't know how those two are anyway. I have a very big obsession with Romano's inferiority complex (and apologize for any OOCness), and the very firm conviction that countries cannot _die _until something like with Roman Empire happens to them. Or become several different countries. By the way, take paper bags, guys. Not kidding, you'll be throwing rainbows up at the end of this oneshot. I mostly use italics for Romano's thoughts._

_Warnings : SpeRo, therefore yaoi ; Mentions of "suicide attempt"/vein cutting (well, not only mentions of, but you get it) ; abuse of italics ; depression in general ; over-fluffed ending_

_I do not own Hetalia.  
_

_Word count : 2939_

* * *

When he notices how the cuts that had been spreading all over his wrists start to heal, he does the same thing he did last time it happened, and the time before that, and all those other times- he doesn't count them anymore.

He gets a knife, and cuts again. That knife is always ready, if only for that sole purpose he has destined it for. Deeper this time. And maybe it will leave him alone then. Finally alone ; even though he knows there is nothing such as death to a nation. Not until other circumstances occur. He hates it with a passion he can't describe.

If he could, he would cut as deep as humanly (_not that you are one anyway_, he sourly thinks) possible. And then, the blood would flow, and then, perhaps, all those thoughts and ideas and _oh god this feels so wrong_-- all this would never have happened and go away. Just because some people think of him as useless is not what is going to make him lose his temper. but.

There have always been '_but_'s in his life.

From the time he was born, and then, later on, when he was adult. There has always been something that people would never say, but he was not as stupid as they thought. The whispers behind his back, the looks he was given, the way they would avoid him, the meanings of every sentence, the implied '_your brother's better than you_'s they never thought he noticed.

There are some people, he really cannot care less. but others, he does, because he will never admit it but there are those he likes and are important to him, and when _they_ look at him that way or think he's worth less than nothing, it hurts.

Especially _him_, because he never seems to notice _how much_ his words and actions actually did affect him.

This is why he cuts. His rage is directed towards the world, towards his family, towards those he cares for and _fuck why can't he just forget them all!_ but most of all, all this comes back to him, because he knows he's worthless, and that nobody would care anyway.

He knows the way he inflicts himself those wounds is completely useless, because _even_ _if_ he could die, the blood would stop flowing at one point. He would have to put his wrist underwater, or cut along the vein, but he doesn't do it, and he knows why. This awful and blinding truth, darkening his thoughts like a persisting nightmare would scare a child awake every night, is that he is a coward, and has always been. As much as he hates it here, as much as he would love this all to stop, he can't do it. Even when his hand starts to shake, his legs can't hold him and he falls down on the -_coldcoldcold-_ floor, and the blood starts its ineluctable way down his arm to drop in morbid platters and forms onto the waxed parquet floor.

And in spite of all this, he smiles. Because he feels so damn pathetic he has to either laugh or cry, and he cried enough already _and damn it all, this has to stop!_ Just to infuriate him further, his eyes start to burn, and now his whole body is shaking and _fuck this_, it's no use anyway now is it? The smile that has been on his lips mere seconds before is now replaced by the grimace of someone clenching their teeth forcefully and desperately in a vain attempt to hold back what they don't want others to see.

Not that there is anyone here to see him to begin with.

The trembles of his body increase in both intensity and regularity, and that's when he grabs his arms with his hands- he flinches and it hurts because he squeezes too tight but he doesn't care because at least this way he knows he's _alive_ even though he doesn't want to be--

It hurts. A lot more than he wants to admit. But he still pulls his arms closer to his chest, maybe because he is in such a desperate need of comfort that he would accept everyone, anyone at this moment.

When he thinks about it though (and that makes him cringe), he knows that what is nagging at the back of his mind is not the physical pain -because that one is bearable. It's more those thoughts he has in his lonely nights that wont leave him alone until he falls asleep, exhausted and with dried tears sticking to his cheeks, eternal reminder of his inferiority and uselessness.

How nobody wants him.

Likes him.

Needs him.

When he thinks about that too, he feels even more like a wreck. Who can he fool? Everyone but him apparently. He hopes they all don't notice, because if they do, it would just kill him a bit more from the inside. If they don't know how he feels, it would at least explain why they don't care and throw him without thinking in the '_useless_'-labeled category. He hasn't seen anyone for what could as well be minutes as days. He doesn't know, and at this point, he wishes he could say he's beyond this and doesn't think about it anymore, but.

He knows it's not true.

His shirt is white except for the part on his upper right arm that is soaked with red. He can see that it's already starting to dry up and that the stains won't leave, so he takes the shirt off and throws it away. He knows he is never going to clean it up.

He takes the knife in his hand once more, runs it along his wrists, presses a little harder this time. His hand is numb, and he can hardly fist it anymore, useless to say grab something. He wishes he could do the same with the other wrist now, because symmetry has always been a part of what is artistic and he loves it yet he knows it's useless because Veneziano is better than him at that too. With the blade still in his hands, he grabs the rosary around his neck. A few gargled syllables come out, pleas, prays -'Forgive me Father...' is all he can say for a moment, but then he musters enough courage to spill it out completely-- '...for I have sinned...' soon followed by strangled breaths, hiccups and sobs.

He puts his tear-stained cheek against the floor, forever mingling those two liquids together in a macabre dance that will never separate them until they become one single entity haunting his dreams.

He slowly falls asleep, the wicked smile of a desperate man plastered on his face.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's like someone has put the sun right in his face, because the light is so strong and blinding he doesn't recognize anything around him at first. He needs a little time for his eyes to adjust, and eventually they do. There is a lot of white around him, but he knows it's not a hospital, for the simple reason that nobody would be stupid enough to bring him there. When he looks over at the furnitures, he doesn't recognize the room immediately.

He must not be home.

He feels the slight stinging sensation of his wrists, and when he tries to move his hand, he can see it has been bandaged. Red is coloring the white cloth, so it has not been changed since then. Or he is still bleeding. He _did_ cut pretty deep, after all.

The overwhelming amount of white is giving him a headache. He turns his head around and almost closes his eyes, but what he sees then is not what he expected at all.

He expected nothing, actually. Maybe had he moved over there without remembering (now that he thinks about it, this room _does_ look a little like the one that is three doors away from the bathroom...), but apparently, he hadn't. A mess of brown hair is on the bed he's currently lying on, resting peacefully on his stomach.

He does recognize the hair. There is just one single person he knows that has this color and this cut, and he almost wishes he wouldn't be here. Almost. He moves his leg just a tiny bit, closing his eyes, to check if the other reacts to anything, but the idiot seems to be asleep because there is no reaction at all even when he moves his legs a little faster and breathes in and out a little deeper to make the moron's self-proclaimed pillow that is his belly move under him. He still doesn't budge, and now he is persuaded he won't notice anything. When he tries to sit up though, the head shoots up, and he sees two afraid and swollen red eyes seeking his.

_Red doesn't fit you, _he thinks._ Green is much better._

The idiot probably doesn't understand that, because his glance still is hesitant and worried and –_full of pity that's disgusting, don't look at me like that!– _his hands shaky.

The uncomfortable silence stretching between them causes his throat to clench and he can barely breathe. He panics -what is he going to say?- and it shows in his eyes because even that imbecile can see it. The man facing him wipes a few imaginary tears away from his eye (_but that's okay, because he too, he knows how you feel when your eyes are dry after you've cried for so long_), and then, he smiles. He is still trembling, and he knows he does it just to reassure him, the stupid bastard.

Maybe he doesn't even know he's part of all this.

He hopes he doesn't.

When the other looks at him again, he can see the usual glint of his smile disappear and a sharper edge to it, which isn't all that reassuring, even though he knows he wants it to be. That sharper point that clearly says '_Whatever this was for, I hope you have a damn good excuse._', and to this he couldn't respond. He turns his head away from him and closes his eyes ; neither of them will speak, probably, so why bother? In the end, he will probably just leave him -_and go find Veneziano because he would not have done that_- alone, and then he will be able to return to his morbid activity because it's not like he _cares_.

At this point, he knows he can lose nothing.

His eyes are closed and he can't see the world around him anymore. He wishes it could stay this way. It's too painful to look at the others and -_himhimhim you know you love him-_ he doesn't want it to be true when he thinks about everything that seems so obvious to him and they don't notice.

He feels a hand brush lightly against his cheek, probably in a comforting gesture, and he can tell they are both trembling. He knows something has just been murmured, but he ignores it. He doesn't want to give any explanations right now. He will never.

He wonders why he doesn't insist more though.

He feels a hand shyly grabbing his, with that same odd mixture of strength as if he were afraid he would lose him and the softness of someone handling a porcelain doll.

Maybe he is one, after all. A broken, fragile porcelain doll whose heart has been torn apart after they found that new and better one. Left alone and haphazardly discarded on a rack, where it slowly becomes dusty and old.

Now he feels the head on his stomach again, and if he could, he would push him away -_it hurts too much LET GO!_- but he can't so he doesn't. It is almost nothing, but he can feel the pressure on his good hand increase a tiny bit, and that cascade he doesn't want to hear comes out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." he whispers, and this is when he stops listening. If he came just to be sorry, he can go out and leave him alone. He doesn't want pity. From anyone. Even less his_ -and you know why_.

"Go away." he demands, but as expected he doesn't because of course, why would he make it easier for the both of them?

"Tell me why." is the answer, and he is afraid of how he said it, because this time insults, curses and denying won't help. It is not the usual cheery tone ; it is serious but afraid, worried but calm.

"Don't wanna." he says, and maybe he'll drop the subject if he is stubborn enough. but no, of course, he won't.

"Tell me." the tone is demanding, but he can't help but feel it's like he's pleading too. Maybe there is still hope-- he wipes the thought away quickly, because no, it's impossible. He knows nobody cares.

"You don't want me." he says bluntly, and understands what it means only the moment the words are already floating in the air before they are forgotten and _that's not what he wanted to say at all!_ He feels his cheeks heat up, and _fuck it all_, there really is nothing else he can do right now. He feels too weak for that anyway.

"What—"

"Shut up. Go away."

"Why—"

"**Leave**."

"No."

This time he is silent, because one of the reasons he is so stubborn is because he has been raised by him for all those centuries. And if there is someone he can compete with when it comes to stubbornness, then it would be him. Or Prussia. but he doesn't count.

"You don't want me." he repeats, and maybe that thing there on his own face is a tear, he can't be sure.

"I do." he says calmly, and it's strange because he was never supposed to be anything but passionate and cheerful.

"You don't need me." damn it all, he really has nothing to lose.

"I do." and the grip on his hand tightens a bit more. It could be painful but he feels so much better when he does it that he cannot ask him to let go. He is silent for a long moment. What he is about to say, where will it take him? After all, there is no way he would -_ever love you!_- have that same kind of -- feelings for him.

"You don't like me." and he wishes he wouldn't sound so desperate and pathetic because he's gotten enough of all this crap already.

"And you always say _I_ am the idiot." he could swear that his answer is followed by an empty chuckle but right now he doesn't want to check. If he wants to think he's stupid, than let him do what he wants. That obnoxious hand is back on his face again, and this time, it brushes a few strands of his hair away and lingers there, rubbing circles along his temple.

"I _do_ like you." and with that, the content sight he was about to let escape his lips disappears, and it's suddenly so damn cold he can feel his insides twist in a sickening manner. Because. Yes. There is like, and there is _like_.

He moves to sit up, too fast, and he feels dizzy. He can feel the surprised green eyes stare at his back and he needs a few extra seconds to be able to stand up on his own, but he is pulled back against the white bedsheets and why does he still care? The other lays him back against them, and stares at him for a few seconds, before he slowly brushes his thumb across his cheek and touches his lips to his.

For only a second, his brain stops thinking, and the time he needs to process what has just happened, he has already drawn back. He tries to come up with an intelligible question, but he doesn't manage to ask anything else than "...What?"

He bites his lip nervously, probably at a loss of words too, that damn bastard. It's not like there was any meaning behind it -_you know it-_ but he still -_knows it's not worth it-_ hopes he is not going to -_regret it-_ make fun of him _later_--

"...more than I should..."

"Bastard..." is all he can say. but when he turns around and blushes, he is persuaded the moron over there will understand anyway because otherwise he will throw him out of the window. With the curtains and the actual glass.

And then, he smiles, giving him another quick peck at the corner of his mouth before he can start struggling or hitting him.

* * *

He knows most of his wounds cannot be healed ; they both do know that. but if he is allowed to hope, if only just for a few minutes, that there is one little chance, as tiny as it is...

If he is allowed to hope, then maybe, just maybe, there is still a transitory thread he can hang onto and there will be a few of those wounds that will heal. And there still will be Spain by his side, holding his hand firmly.

One day, he will eventually tell him why he was like this.

Because he is an idiot and far too simple, smiles all the damn time and looks like he will never take anything seriously, but.

And this time, Romano is glad that there is a _but_ in his life.

Just this once.

* * *

Hope you liked it. If you did, comment please :)


End file.
